


Care

by poptod



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Could be read as anyone actually, Depression, F/M, First Kiss, Gen, M/M, Suicide, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-22 12:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22215850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poptod/pseuds/poptod
Summary: Sometimes, even with love, depression overtakes.
Relationships: Gerard Way/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Care

**Author's Note:**

> Suicide TW

In class, you stare at the back of his head. He doesn’t know who you are, paying close attention to the words of the teacher. You’d pay better attention too, but nothing really interests you, and the only thing you can find yourself concentrating on as of recent is him. Him and his little quirks, like how his mouth tilts upwards when he speaks, but only the left side. His skin is pale as ever, with sunken eyes that look half dead from where you sit. It’s not like you mind - you don’t care, not at all.

After class he says hello in passing. You barely reply. It’s not until the next week that he picks up conversation with you. It’s really rather one sided, with him trying to get you to speak, try to answer his questions, but you lean against your locker, just staring at him. It’s so hard to look at him, and you can feel your eyes watering as you continue to gaze, but you continue nonetheless. Somehow, he feels too beautiful to look at, as though your continued stare would commit him to sin and blasphemy.

You wonder, over the next month, why he talks to you. For the most part it’s like he’s talking to himself, with you just listening. You both sit together at lunch, and he’s got his own group of friends that are loud and energetic, yet not well liked. You look out of place, in your plain clothing that attracts no attention. Nothing about you attracts attention, but everything about him does; fiercely warm eyes, soft skin, with hair that just barely falls over his eyes and shadows him from view. His clothing choice doesn’t exactly help his situation either, dressed in all black, necklaces dangling on his chest and pierced ears carrying white diamonds or simple black circles.

Come to my house, he says one Friday afternoon, and he makes an excuse that the two of you can study together. Somehow, you know better. You don’t even bother to bring the right textbooks, to let them weigh down your shoulders on the way to his shitty car. He opens the door for you with a smile, and you nod to him, the two of you driving off in the direction of his home.

His room is in the basement, and it would be roomy, if not for all the clothing and comics scattered across the floor. Instruments of various kinds, speakers and amps sit in a jumbled pile in the corner, a disorganized metaphor for his own life. He invites you to sit on his bed, and for some reason you can’t understand, you agree, but you don’t meet his gaze.

Some time through the evening you fall asleep on his shoulder, a video game controller in your hand but your eyes heavy with exhaustion. He lets you sleep in his bed, and he sleeps on the floor. In the morning, he explains the situation to you, and you almost feel bad.

You could’ve slept in your own bed, you tell him, but the words don’t fully process through his head. He’s entranced with you, pulling you up and out of his sheets, your hair messy and eyes blinking slow. And for a moment, all he can think of is how much he wants to see this version of you for the rest of his life. He doesn’t communicate this.

He drives you home and explains the situation to your guardians. They are, for the most part, understanding. For the rest of the day you sit in your bed, staring at the ceiling.

Come Monday something has changed. As you barely eat your lunch, taking around two bites of the sandwich you prepared in the morning, his friends elbow him and send teasing looks his way. You don’t have the energy to question it, but something clearly was happening. He touches you more, in quiet and barely noticeable ways - brushing shoulders with you, your pinkies touching as you sit next to each other, and he leans in when he speaks to you, if only to get closer. His hair hangs further down his eyes when he does this. It’s almost endearing.

A few weeks pass and the two of you sit out back of the school, in the grass the school keeps meticulously cut and green. The water bill must be through the roof, he comments, picking at the grass. You exhale through your nose, a dissatisfying half laugh that has him staring at you. Only at that moment do you realize you’ve never laughed, or smiled, in front of him.

In that moment, you wonder to yourself, when was the last time you smiled?

It leaves him reeling, wondering if he can ever get you to really, truly smile. It occupies his time for the next several months, telling various jokes and making snide comments that have his friend group laughing loud and obnoxious. You stay silent, pushing your sandwich out of the way so you don’t have to look at it anymore.

On a Saturday he takes your hand, holding it gently yet firmly in his as he takes you to his car. You think to ask what he has planned, but you don’t. Instead you let him drive you wherever he has planned, staring out the window as people and trees pass by. He pulls into a parking lot, and once more he takes your hand, leading you into a graveyard. He certainly looks at home, and the way he cuts through the headstones to where he needs to be, you know he’s been here a lot.

He shows you a grave, and he kneels, saying I wanted to introduced you to a good friend. I think he would’ve like you, he says. You don’t reply, but as he sniffs, you kneel beside him, leaning your head on his shoulder. Comfort isn’t a thing you’re familiar with, and certainly not something you can easily provide, but you try. Somehow, it works, and he wraps his arms around you.

That evening he makes the two of you microwave dinners, and you sit in front of the television watching some shitty movie about aliens. When it’s done, you both sit on his bed, and he holds your hand.

Facing you, he says, I feel something. It’s not incredibly specific, and you mention this to him. Let me continue, he says.

I don’t feel an awful lot, he says. I don’t often laugh. Not… sincerely. I don’t know why, he says.

You know why, why a person might not laugh, or smile, for a long time. Still, he continues.

I think I’m falling in love, he finally whispers, watching your eyes for a reaction, but they show none. They do not widen, or sparkle, and you do not come to any realization.

Who is it? You ask.

He kisses you.

He kisses you, but it feels empty. He assures you he loves you, so maybe it’s just you. Maybe it’s just you feeling empty.

You hold his hand, and you tell him to go to sleep. For good measure, you kiss him on the forehead. He smiles up at you as you stand, sweet and so purely caring, like you’re the only real thing he can love. It makes you smile, just barely, and on the walk home, you cry.

When, in the following days, you try to kill yourself, he doesn’t come running. No angelic sign comes to him to worry him, with your quick excuses that simply couldn’t be lies to him. He’s so sure you wouldn’t lie to him. Still, Sunday, you shove your throat full of pills and swallow. You’re not even quite sure why you’re doing it, as his face is the last thing you can think of, how beautiful it seems, and how he seemed to glow in your embrace, in your so-called love. But it’s not like you mind - you don’t care, not at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been going through some shit. sorry I haven't been posting. I have so many stories but they're all half completed. I'm so sorry. this is sort of a vent. its the only thing ive finished haha.


End file.
